Death Imitating Art
by praemonitus praemunitus
Summary: The 5-0 task force are faced with a killer that turns his victims into famous works of art. How soon before they figure out his motive and are able to track him down? How soon before one of them becomes the next "masterpiece"?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** For the record, I'm blaming Titian for this. Seriously. Not kidding. I was all set to finish working on the final chapter of "And Then There Were None". I even started working on moving past the first two sentences where it's been sitting for the past several months. And then I ran across Titian's St. Sebastian (I have for some reason been obsessed with that painting ever since I first saw it as a kid), and my brain went "Ooooh, you know what you have to do now, don't you?". I objected, I said, "Come on, how am I EVER going to tie THAT to 5-0?" And it was like, "Let me show you." Yep, my brain is a scary place.

So, here it is. I've got a pretty good idea where the story is going, and I'm hoping to be able to write it along with the Christie story. I feel like visual aids might be a good help for this particular story, so I will be providing links to paintings for each one that I use. Or you can always just google them :)

I hope to hear what you think of the story. Does the idea sound interesting? Have I given away too much with my little rant on Titian? Do you already suspect where this is going? Let me know.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own them or the paintings mentioned.

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

The room was bare, save for a couple of pieces of furniture: an old-fashioned iron-frame bed pushed flush against the far wall and a wooden dresser, standing beside it. A single painting of a hooded monk hung on an otherwise bare wall - the pious figure appearing to be scrutinizing the partially unmade bed below it: the white rumpled sheets and the glaringly red bedspread pushed carelessly and crookedly aside. In the middle of that crumpled mess with feet hanging down to the floor lay their victim – a man in his late thirties. A snow-white dress shirt, a sloppily undone bowtie, dark well-pressed pants and dress shoes... If it weren't for a gun held loosely in his limp right hand and a bright red stain that spread rapidly across the front of his shirt, marring its impeccable whiteness, he looked for all the world as if he had just returned home from some formal function, collapsed onto his bed in a tired sprawl and fell asleep, too exhausted to lie down properly, let alone get fully undressed.

"Why was 5-0 called on this?" Kono inquired of no one in particular, squinting at the scene before her in genuine confusion. "This looks like a regular suicide."

"Looks can be deceiving, Officer Kalakaua," came a matter-of-fact response, as Dr. Max Bergman, the department's Chief Medical Examiner, straightened out from where he was leaning over the victim's right arm and turned toward them, calmly pushing his glasses further up on his nose.

"Oookay," Danny drawled out, as the silence that followed Max's oddly philosophical remark seemed to stretch just a tad too long. "So you _**don't**_ think this was suicide."

"That is correct," the M.E. jerked his head slightly in the blond's direction, his face impassive. "I believe that this is a very elaborately staged murder."

"And the thing that makes you think that iiiis...," the Jersey native trailed off expectantly, mentally going over a list of a good dozen of things he could have rather been doing on this fine Saturday morning instead of standing here in the middle of a supposed crime scene waiting for Max to birth the next sentence.

"There are numerous factors that helped me make that determination, Detective Williams," Max replied, looking thoroughly unimpressed. "If you'd like I can provide you with a fully catalogued list after I have finished with my examination. In the meantime, would the knowledge that there is no GSR on the victim's hand be sufficient for you to accept my conclusion?"

"Uh... no, Max, it's... fine, I trust you," Danny backpedaled, throwing a baffled look at his partner, who gave him an amused half-smile in response.

"I am relieved to hear that, Detective. I'd hate to have to lose sleep, worrying about whether or not you believed my judgment to be trustworthy," the M.E. retorted, his face perfectly unflappable, even as Danny's eyebrows began to climb rapidly into his hairline and the three remaining task force members looked away almost simultaneously in a valiant effort to hide their smiles from their hot-tempered colleague.

"I am not sure I like the sarcastic side of you, Max," the Jersey native grumbled, turning to shoot a glare of mock disapproval at his youngest colleague, who gave a loud snort of amusement beside him. "Et tu, Brute? I honestly expected more from you, Kalakaua."

"How about you tell us what we have here, Max?" Chin asked, placing a calming hand on Danny's shoulder, while hiding a smirk of his own.

Dr Bergman nodded gravely, once again pushing up his glasses. "The scene before you, ladies and gentlemen, is a near-perfect recreation of Édouard Manet's 1887 painting titled 'Le Suicidé', which, translated from French, means 'The Suicide' ... the person, not the act."

He pulled out his phone, searching for something. "Here," he announced, pointing to a JPEG image that appeared to be nearly identical to the one displayed before them in living color.

"Huh," was all Danny could say, as he shifted his gaze from the image on Max's phone to the body in bed, his earlier sulkiness forgotten. Cocking his head slightly to the side, he took a step closer, the corners of his mouth pulling down into a pensive frown. " Somebody sure went through a lot of trouble to stage this. Every detail, every color. It's like... death imitating art."

"As crude as your paraphrasing of the quote is, Detective, I believe this time your observation is quite adequate."

"Why, thank you, Max."

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"Alright, what do we know about our vic, Chin?" Steve called out, walking into the 5-0 offices armed with a folder that contained Max's notes and autopsy results.

The tall Hawaiian, who stood leaning over the Smart Table, looked up and nodded in silent greeting before turning back to his task, long fingers dancing over the keys.

"The vic's name is Joshua Platt," he supplied, pulling the man's driver's license picture up on the screen. "From what I was able to dig up, he was a part-owner of a small arts gallery up on the North Shore. No criminal history apart from a couple of speeding tickets and a report of possible domestic dispute filed by his neighbor."

"Domestic dispute?" the SEAL moved in closer, the dark blue eyes narrowing assessingly on the thin elongated face on the screen. "Do we know any details?"

Chin pulled up another screen. "The complaint was filed by the Platts' next-door neighbor, a Mrs. Kalena Palakiko. According to the report, she called 911 on July 1 of this year and told the police to get over to her neighbors' house right away because, and I quote, 'those two haoles are trying to kill each other'. No arrests were made and no further reports were filed," the Hawaiian pulled his gaze away from the screen with a small shrug. "I guess the police haven't found anything to cause further investigation into the matter."

Steve harrumphed indeterminately, squinting at the highlighted report. There was a rustle of movement beside him and he felt Danny's familiar warmth, as the smaller man inserted himself unabashedly into his personal space.

"You think this is related?"

"I don't know," Steve shrugged, an unhappy frown pinching the corner of his mouth. "It's not much to go on, I agree, but it's the only lead we have so far." Placing the folder he had been holding onto the table before him, the SEAL flipped it open, pointing at a highlighted paragraph in the middle of the first page. "Max's report says our vic had traces of Ketamine in his system and what appears to be an injection site on his neck. So whoever killed him didn't just shoot him outright. They incapacitated him first. That makes sense if our killer was a woman."

"True," the blond acceded, glancing at the crime scene photo, where their victim was laid out like a well-groomed mannequin on a meticulously prepared set. "But the killer also needed to stage the scene, make sure everything was exactly the same as in the picture, down to the angle of the shot. And if the victim had seen the gun and decided to run away or defend himself – bam, there goes the perfect painting."

Steve bit his lip, still glancing pensively up at the screen, his frown lines growing deeper. Shaking his head briefly as if trying to chase away an errant thought, he concluded firmly, "I still say we should check out that domestic dispute report, talk to the wife, the neighbor, get a feel for what was going on with the Platts. We've got nothing else to go on so far."

"Alright," the Jersey native acquiesced, raising his hands and stepping back from him in mock submission to Steve's authority. "But I gotta tell you, as violent as those domestic disputes can get, I have yet to see one where a spouse would murder her other half and then spend time and money to turn him into a centuries-old masterpiece."

"Stranger things have happened, brah," Chin Ho pointed out with his usual Zen-master-like equanimity, receiving an eye-roll from Danny and an amused half-smile from Steve.

"It's settled then," the former SEAL announced, his voice almost cheery now that he had a mission before him. "Chin, you and Kono talk to Mrs. Palakiko. Danny and I will interview Platt's wife." And, grasping his recalcitrant partner by the arm, he began pulling him toward the double doors, ignoring the latter's indignant calls to "let me go, you, animal", punctuated by none-too-gentle left-handed punches to his own upper arm.

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><p>TBC<p>

As promised, here's a link to the first painting - Édouard Manet's "Le Suicidé" (don't forget to replace words "dot" and "forward slash" with actual symbols) www dot manet dot org forward slash le-suicide dot jsp


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N **Thank you so much for your kind response to this story! I am so thrilled that you are enjoying it. Thank you! I will try my best to reply to all of you (and thank you to the Guest reviewers - since I know I cannot reply to you personally).

As always, I look forward to hearing your thoughts.

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

The first thing the very frazzled and very pregnant looking Mrs. Platt did upon learning of her husband's death was collapse in a dead faint right on the doorstep of her lavish North Shore area home. Thanks to the SEAL's lightning fast reflexes, the poor woman ended up falling straight into his arms instead of the cold marble floor.

Steve grunted under the woman's appreciable weight, straining to hold her up, even as he peered past her into the living room, his gaze zeroing in on a brown leather couch there. That couch was where he half-dragged half-carried her to, while Danny rushed off into the nearby kitchen for a glass of water.

She came to almost as suddenly, flinching away from them on instinct until recognition set in, and then she just huddled back against the cushions, nervously clutching the glass that Danny had handed to her, her pale freckled face frozen in a twisted mask of confusion and horror.

"Mrs. Platt, can you think of anyone who would want to harm your husband?" Steve inquired carefully, catching her wide confused stare.

"Harm? I don't... I don't know," the distressed redhead stammered, shaking her head in shocked denial. "Josh wasn't... He never...," she swallowed with apparent difficulty, her mind going back to the grim details of her husband's death. "Shot? He was shot? Who would...?" A loud hiccupped sob broke past her red-tinged lips, drowning out the rest of the phrase.

"That's what we would like to know, Mrs. Platt," Steve replied with a sigh, wincing as the woman's sobs turned into a mournful high-pitched keening. "What can you tell us about the domestic disturbance report that was filed on you and your husband a month ago?"

The wails cut off with a shuddered breath, tears giving way to annoyance that flashed across her face intense and sudden like a bolt of lightning across a clear blue sky. "It was nothing. Absolutely nothing," she all but snarled, pushing herself with quite a bit of difficulty up and off the couch to begin pacing agitatedly up and down the middle of the spacious living room. "It was that Palakiko woman. She is a nosy old bat, who can't seem to keep her nose out of our business. Always watching, always ranting at us for one thing or another. And then last month she went and called the police on us."

"Mrs. Palakiko expressed concern over a particularly violent nature of your last confrontation with your husband, Mrs. Platt," Steve objected, tracking her waddling figure with a grim distrustful expression. "Now would you mind telling us what it is that you and your husband were fighting about?"

She froze in her tracks, twisting around, her pallid face – a picture of shocked indignation. "Fighting? We weren't fighting, Detective. We argued, yes. There might have been some ... things thrown around... it's the hormones, you understand," she added, pointing awkwardly at her protruding belly. "But that was it. That was as far as it went."

"Thrown around, huh?" Steve raised a skeptical eyebrow at her, his gaze shifting from her melodramatically wrung hands to an irregularly shaped hole in the far wall right about Evelyn Platt's height level. Nodding to Danny to draw his attention to the damaged plaster, he repeated, "What was your argument about, ma'am?"

She hesitated, shifting her gaze between the two of them, as if gauging, anticipating what their reaction would be, then sighed tiredly, making her way slowly back to the couch. "It was because of that damned Sylvia woman," she spat venomously, lowering herself carefully back onto the leather cushions.

There was a moment of silence, as the two 5-0 members waited for her to elaborate, before Danny urged her on with an impatient, "Sylvia?"

"Sylvia Winters, Josh's work partner."

"At the gallery?" Danny clarified, and she nodded grimly, running a well-manicured hand through her long red strands.

"They knew each other from before. High school sweethearts or something," Evelyn continued, her lips curling into a bitter smirk. " They haven't seen each other in years. And then she shows up out of the blue, and she wants to go into business together." She huffed contemptuously, wringing her hands in an effort to control her emotions. "I wasn't jealous at first, you know. I trusted Josh. But then I got pregnant, and I began gaining weight and... I wasn't feeling all that alluring, if you know what I mean." The laughter was forced, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, and she blinked, letting some escape.

"Did you suspect that he was seeing that other woman?" Steve asked, watching her intently, even as he made a mental note to check into Joshua Platt's business partner.

Her response was a pitiful half-shrug. "I wasn't sure. Didn't have any proof. But he was being distant, staying at work longer hours. I suspected, yes."

"And that's why you fought that day." It wasn't a question, but she nodded anyway.

"We made up, though," she hurried to add. "Things have been... better. Josh was even gonna take a few days off, we were gonna go away for a week - just the two of us, before the baby came." She glanced down at her belly and tears once again streamed down her face.

The men glanced at each other, their silent communication coming down to one simple conclusion – they were done here.

"Thank you for your help, Mrs. Platt. We're sorry for your loss."

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The body of Sylvia Winters was discovered floating in the bathtub of her condo, clothed in a long flowing dress that spread out around her like a tangled lacy blanket, on which she appeared to be resting. Her long brown hair floated around her head loose and airy like a gently moving halo. Her eyes and mouth hung open in mute wonder, her hands tucked close at her sides, palms turned upward in silent supplication. Flowers were strewn all around her in the water that had been tainted dark, islands of bright green moss accentuating the artificially murky depths. Sedge stems, luscious flower-studded shrubbery and branches of a felled tree, hanging low over the water, were painted in vivid colors over the outside of the tub and the adjacent wall, giving the room an eerie woodland atmosphere.

"Ophelia," Max called out to them by way of greeting, nodding at the scene before them. "From John Everett Millais's painting. Beautifully done... in a morbid sort of way," he added, shrugging to himself before turning back to his work.

Steve took a step forward, looking down at the woman they thought might have held some answers to Joshua Platt's death. The painstaking details of the scene were a precise echo of their first crime scene – same careful arrangement, same dogged attention to every element of it. He wasn't a cop by profession, but he worked as one long enough to know that what he was looking at was a killer's signature, and he was willing to bet that this victim had a similar needle mark on her neck and traces of Ketamine in her blood.

"Looks like we've got a serial killer on our hands," Danny announced grimly at his side, and Steve nodded, his own expression dark with troubling thoughts. A serial killer with an unhealthy obsession with art and a flare for the dramatics. Careful enough not to leave any trace of his or her presence behind. Obsessed enough to strike twice within a matter of days and likely already searching for his next victim.

"We need to look into all of their clients," he charged sternly, looking back at his team. "Fast. We're working against the clock here."

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><p>TBC<p>

The painting is titled "Ophelia" by John Everett Millais: www dot tate dot org dot uk forward slash art forward slash artworks forward slash millais-ophelia-n01506


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: None of the core characters are mine (sigh), though how I wish they were...**

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><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

"Mrs. Donahue, can you think of anyone who could have had a grudge against Mr. Platt or Ms. Winters? A disgruntled employee perhaps? Someone who's been recently fired? Or an artist your gallery turned down?"

Ellen Donahue, a portly graying secretary at the Kailani Art Gallery, shrugged, worrying her bottom lip distractedly, as she seemed to consider the question. "I'm not sure what to tell you, detectives," she said finally, flicking her gaze between the two of them. "We receive so many applications. Everyone thinks they are future Monets, Rembrandts or Picassos." She gave them a long-suffering eye-roll as she gestured at a large stack of letters that sat on her desk in a bin marked "outbox". "Those were supposed to go out in the mail yesterday. Every single one of them - a rejection letter."

"And how often do you send those out?" Steve inquired, as he took a step closer, reaching to pick up the top letter.

"About once a month," came another shrug. "It takes time for us to go through all the portfolios, review the artwork, you understand. That's why we haven't really fired anyone recently. The gallery was becoming so popular, especially after Ms. Winters was signed on as partner. Applications were pouring in. We needed _more_ people on staff, not less." Mrs. Donahue's tanned wrinkled face crumpled, as she glanced out at their recently orphaned gallery halls. "Not sure what's going to happen now, though," she murmured, shaking her head in undisguised worry.

"Mrs. Donahue," Danny called out gently, trying to bring her focus back to the matter at hand. "Could you compile a list of the most recent rejections for us?"

"Of course, of course," the older woman shook herself forcefully out of her unpleasant thoughts and stood up, shuffling over to a magnet and post-it note covered filing cabinet that stood in the far corner of her cramped office. "I really don't think it's going to be of any use to you, though," she cautioned several long minutes later, as she pulled out a thick manila folder with frayed edges and coffee-stained sides. "Like I said, those applications - we get hundreds of them every week. And the artists, they are used to rejection letters. It's all part of the process." She trailed off, struck by a sudden thought. "You know, if anyone _**could **_have a grudge against Ms. Winters, it would be her former partner at the Waimea Galleries, Mr. Sandhu. _**He**_ is the one you should be talking to."

"Oh?" Steve quirked a skeptical eyebrow at her, even as she began to bob her head enthusiastically in support of her statement. "What makes you say that?"

"Oh, he was very angry with Ms. Winters for leaving, you see." Throwing furtive looks to either side of her, Mrs. Donahue leaned forward, pushing the pile of papers in front of her to the side. "Rumor has it, she stole some of the client names when she walked away from that job," she confided conspiratorially. "Mr. Sandhu... he came by a few times a couple of months ago. I overheard some of his conversations with Ms. Winters. They were quite... heated."

"Heated conversations, huh," Danny repeated, throwing his partner a meaningful look, to which Steve responded with a "we'll look into it" shrug.

"Yes, very much so," the secretary reiterated with another enthusiastic nod. "There was even talk of legal action." She paused mid-movement, her arm halfway extended to pass the folder to them, and stared up at them with an expression of triumphant expectation, waiting for them to acknowledge her prowess.

"Thank you, Mrs. Donahue," Danny dipped his head at her, biting down on a smirk that came unbidden. "We'll be sure to check out Mr. Sandhu," he added, reaching for the folder. "Thank you again. You've been a great help."

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Steve had his phone out the moment the two of them stepped out of the cool marble-floored hallways of the Kailani Art Gallery into the stiflingly hot sunlit Hawaiian afternoon.

"Who're you calling?"

"Kono," came the instant response. Scrolling through the list of contacts, as his other hand dove back into the pocket, digging for his _(Danny's) _keys, Steve added, nodding at the thick folder that Danny had tucked under his arm, "There are probably hundreds of names in there. It's gonna take us days to sift through all of them. And we can't afford to ignore what Ellen Donahue just told us about her boss's former business partner. Maybe it **_is_ **all about business breakup gone wrong."

"Let me guess, your plan is to stick Kono with the rejects, while you go traipsing off to the other gallery," Danny observed teasingly, as he slid into the passenger seat, enjoying his partner's glowering aneurysm face in response to his remark. "Anything to get out of doing the boring research stuff, eh SuperSEAL?"

"For your information," Steve huffed out sullenly seconds before the call connected, "I was gonna have Kono and Chin interview Mr. Sandhu, while you and I get started on the letters, since we already have them. But given your impressive faith in my character, I might just stick you with the lot of them."

And with that he revved up the engine, his attention focused solely and angrily on the voice on the other end of the line.

Danny opened his mouth to respond, but thought better of it, abandoning the attempt with a heavy sigh, even as he wondered mutely how it was possible for a battle-hardened badass Navy SEAL to still behave like a petulant child. Shaking his head in affectionate amusement, he made himself a promise to try and soothe his friend's ruffled feathers as soon as he got a chance.

"Thanks, Kono. We'll meet you there." Steve put down the phone, giving Danny a sideways glance, as he reached over to flip on the lights and sirens. "Looks like we can eliminate Mikala Sandhu from our list of suspects," he surmised grimly, making a U-turn sharp enough to cause his blond partner to slam quite forcefully into the passenger door. "Duke called the office a few minutes ago. The gallery curator found his boss's body and called it in. Chin and Kono are already on their way there."

"This just keeps getting better and better," Danny groused, biting back a hiss of pain and keeping a white-knuckled grip on the dashboard before him, as the Camaro roared northbound in the direction of the Waimea Galleries, zooming wildly through the afternoon traffic that left perilously little room for those kinds of maneuvers.

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The naked body of Mikala Sandhu was sat in a makeshift linen-covered bathtub in his office, propped up against one of its sides. His head, wrapped in a white linen towel, as though he had just washed his hair, was leant carefully against a cloth-covered chair that was pushed up against the back of the tub. One arm dangled lifelessly over the side, a white feather quill held loosely between nerveless fingers set stiffly against the floor. A bloody knife lay inches away from it, as if dropped there haphazardly by the hurried killer. The other arm rested limply on a green cloth covered board that was placed across the edges of the tub to create a semblance of a tabletop. A piece of bloodstained paper with neat calligraphic script was squeezed tightly between the blue-tinged fingers. More blood-smeared papers were stuck underneath the arm, the blood trail leading back toward the body, the deep wide slashing wound below the right collarbone, the stream of drying blood along the bare chest and the crispy white linens, the nauseatingly red-tinged water rising up almost to the very edges of the tub. A scuffed wooden crate set on its side was pushed flush against the side of the tub – atop was an old fashioned inkwell, another quill, a couple more papers covered in calligraphic writing. And on its front in large block letters it said "A MARAT. DAVID" with "L'AN DEUX" in smaller letters below it.

Hands shoved deep into his pockets, Danny rocked back and forth on his heels, squinting pensively past the squatting medical examiner at the gruesome scene before him. "Ah," he pulled one hand out, finger raised in caution, even as Max opened his mouth to speak. "Hold up there, doc, I think I've got this one. I remember seeing something like that in Grace's history textbook. 'Marat's Death' something or other?"

The medical examiner rose to his feet and dipped his head appreciatively, clasping his hands in front of him with an air of grave importance. "There may be hope for you yet, Detective," he observed in his usual haughty manner. "The actual name of the painting our killer chose to imitate this time is 'Death of Marat' by Jacques-Louis David, circa 1793, or "L'An Deux" - Year Two of the French Revolution, as the author himself marked it. Your guess was very close."

"Thank you, Max, you're very kind," the blond detective quipped grouchily, pointedly ignoring his smirking partner, as he moved closer to the victim. "Well, I guess we can safely say that this was not about Sylvia Winters siphoning off the clients," he concluded, turning back to the team, his lips pursed unhappily at the thought of the pile of papers waiting for them in the car. "So much for the simple solution."

"Guess we're back to the rejection letters," Steve confirmed distractedly, chewing on his bottom lip. "And looks like we're going to end up doubling that list of names, too."

"I was afraid you were gonna say that." Danny let out an exaggerated sigh and turned to the thin, bespectacled, tie-wearing gallery curator, who stood wringing his hands nervously in the corner of the room. "We're gonna need a list of all the recent applications your gallery rejected, sir."

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><p><em>TBC<em>

_Well, another suspect bites the dust. And my list of paintings is rapidly approaching the end. Who's gonna be next? Hmm..._

The painting described above is "Death of Marat" by Jacques-Louis David: www dot independent dot co dot uk forward slash incoming forward slash article9035099 dot ece forward slash alternates forward slash w620 forward slash 5644481 dot jpg


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N I had a little bit of free time (which may not happen again for a while), so I decided to hurry up with another chapter. I apologize for not keeping up with the reviews. I can't say it enough - I am extremely grateful for them! Thank you all for reading, commenting, following, favoriting this story! **

**Please note, this is the first chapter that does not include a description of a murder scene or a link to another painting. I've gotten quite a few positive responses on both the descriptions and the links I provided, so not to worry, there will be more of those. In fact, the very next chapter might actually provide you with two-fer :)**

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><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

Several grueling hours later they were able to narrow the list down to 25 names, 25 applicants that have submitted their work to both galleries within the past two months and were subsequently rejected by both of them. Physically exhausted, their vision blurry from staring at mountains of paperwork for such a long stretch of time, the four task force members decided to count this as a small victory and, considering the lateness of the hour, to celebrate said victory by dragging their weary selves out the door and heading home to rest. Steve lingered behind at the last minute, his sluggish brain supplying him with an idea he was loath to ignore.

Tossing out a quick, "I'll be right out," to Danny, who hesitated in the doorway, raising an expectant eyebrow in his direction, he walked back to his office and began rummaging through the papers on his desk.

"What are you doing?" Danny's voice startled him momentarily and he looked up, blinking blearily at his partner, who had apparently decided against waiting for him by the outside door and was currently yawning at him from the threshold of his office.

"I remember seeing a sign outside the Waimea Galleries that they were having some kind of an event tonight," he explained with a shrug, pulling out the paper with the phone number he was looking for. "If they haven't cancelled it that means they are open late. I thought I'd try calling them and, if they are open, fax over our list of suspects – give us a head start for tomorrow."

Danny regarded him silently for a moment before shoving his hands in his pockets and leaning back against the door with a resigned nod.

"What are _**you**_ doing?" Steve frowned, looking back at him with an odd mixture of confusion and incredulity.

"Waiting for you to finish up," the blond replied with a nonchalant shrug. "Making sure you don't decide to trade the comforts of your own bed for this black leather monstrosity you call a couch," he added dipping his head in the direction of the piece of furniture in question.

A soft smile twisted his pale lips in response, and Steve dropped his head, making a show of dialing the number, "I didn't know you cared, Danno."

"I don't," the other assured him instantly, his own answering smile undermining his words. "I just know what you are like when you spend the night trying to sleep while pretzel-cramming your gargantuan carcass onto this Lilliputian excuse for a couch. And, judge me if you will, but I firmly believe that having you crick-free and well-rested goes a long way to ensuring my continued well-being."

"You're all heart, buddy." The smile turned into an understanding smirk, Steve's gaze already straying away from him, as he focused his attention on the phone. "Mr. Merrick. This is Lt. Commander Steve McGarrett from 5-0, we spoke earlier today. ... Yes. ... That is correct. ... Mr. Merrick, I will be faxing you a list of names. I would appreciate it if you could look through those and let me know if any of them stand out, if you remember Mr. Sandhu or yourself having an altercation or an argument with any of them. ... I understand that, sir, yes, but I'll appreciate anything you can remember. ... Thank you. Yes. You can call this number – it's my cell phone. Any time."

He hung up, shoving the cell phone back into his pocket and looked back at his pointedly yawning partner. "Ready to go?"

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A light knock startled him out of his musings, and he looked up, pushing the stubbornly slipping glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. A tousle-haired stubble-cheeked face of assistant gallery preparator peeked through the partially opened door of his office, staring at him expectantly.

"Mr. Merrick, everyone's already gone for the day. I'm ready to close up."

The bespectacled curator nodded, blinking myopically at the younger man. "You go ahead, Jacob," he allowed, taking off his glasses to rub a tired hand over his eyes. "I got a few more things to finish up here."

"Anything I can help with?" the tall lanky twenty-something slipped further into the room, gazing curiously at the piece of paper laying on the desk in front of the curator.

Calvin Merrick pursed his lips thoughtfully, considering the offer, but then shook his head, giving him a small regretful smile. "I'm afraid you won't be able to help much here, Jacob. Commander McGarrett faxed me this list a few minutes ago, and I wanted to look over it before I headed out."

"The 5-0 guy? From earlier today?" the younger man licked his lips in sudden agitation, craning his neck to get a better look. "What kind of list is it?"

"Possible suspects, he said," the curator murmured distractedly, his glasses once again perched on the bridge of his nose, as he leaned over the paper, studiously dragging his pen from name to name. He stopped suddenly, pen frozen in mid-air above a second to last line. "That's... Jacob Liang... that's you." He looked up in confusion, which quickly changed to alarm, as the younger man was suddenly, unexpectedly standing too close behind him, the expression on his face holding none of the usual deferential friendliness.

"What are you doing?" he gasped, as the preparator's arm shot out without warning, wrapping itself around his skinny throat, pinning him forcibly in the chair. He flailed, his arms grabbing uselessly at the deceptively strong limb in a vain attempt to loosen its merciless viselike grip. "What's going on?" he managed to wheeze out, his fear spiking, even as he felt a sharp prick in the side of his neck, and his world slowly and inexorably disintegrated into nothingness.

H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~

He added the last finishing touches and stepped back, tilting his head slightly to admire his handiwork. Another masterpiece. Perfect and deliciously terrifying as always. _"Yum,"_ he ran a savoring tongue over his lips, smiling to himself, as he took in his newest "painting". Sure, he didn't plan on killing the curator, but the old man had gotten too close and needed to be eliminated. Besides, he always found the man to be just a tad irritating – always noseying about, poking his four-eyes where they didn't belong, always ready to prostrate himself before the owner. Well, no longer. Now, thanks to him, Calvin Merrick turned from a lowly boot-licker to an exalted work of art.

He took a deep self-satisfied breath, casually dusted off his pants, knocking off some loose feathers and threads of fabric (wasn't much that he could do about the blood or paint – not that those stains bothered him any) and walked back to his car.

He had worked through the night, and sunrise was less than an hour away. And there was still so much to be done. Reaching into the driver side window he pulled out the piece of paper he had taken off the curator's desk earlier. Good old Calvin – always so organized, so anal about writing everything down. Including the phone number of the 5-0 cop that had called him. _Perfect._

He dialed the number, waiting patiently until the call connected. "Commander McGarrett, I am so terribly sorry to bother you at such an early hour," he began, as soon as he heard a gruff, sleep-roughened "hello". "My name is Jacob Liang. I'm an assistant preparator at the Waimea Galleries. Mr. Merrick, our curator, called me from his home a few minutes ago. He was frantic. He asked me to go to the gallery straight away and get your number from his desk. I live right by it, you see," he almost smiled again, as he listened to his own fearful sounding jumbled explanations. _Damn, he was good._ "Mr. Merrick, he forgot to take your number with him when he left to go home, and then he said he remembered a name from the list you gave him. It just came to him, he said. And he sounded scared, Commander. Said that it was urgent that you come see him."

There was a beat of silence on the other end, and he held his breath, listening to the sounds of rustling, followed by a soft creak, as though someone was moving around in bed. Then, "Could you give me the address, please?"

He bit his lip. Hard. Now was not the time to give in to his excitement. Soon, though. Very, very soon. He carefully recited the address and thanked the man profusely, even going so far as to promise to call Mr. Merrick to give him a heads up.

He tossed the phone casually onto the passenger seat and turned to take one last glance at the morbid scene behind him. "Goodbye, my Icarus," he tossed out with affected pathos, "I'm off to meet my new masterpiece."

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

_Well, now we have the identity of our killer. Still no motive, though (not for the previous killings, at least). Well, that's coming. Oh, and did I say something about TWO paintings in the next chapter? Hmm... (evil grin)_


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N Well, here we go... It's my longest one yet. Hopefully, all things fall into place, but this was unbetaed and written on very little sleep, so... I apologize just in case something doesn't make sense.**

**Let me know what you think. **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

Dawn has just begun to work its magic on the mist-covered shores of Oahu, giving them back their soft golden hue that night had briefly taken away, when a very grumpy tie-less Danny pulled his Camaro to park alongside Kono's red Cruze a few feet away from a line of yellow police tape that had cordoned off a portion of the Halona Beach Cove.

Sighing dramatically, he climbed out of the car and walked reluctantly over to his waiting teammates. "Is it too much to ask that a serial killer wait at least a day before dumping a new body in our lap," he grumbled, ducking under the police tape to get closer. "Or at least have the decency to wait until _**after **_the ass-crack of dawn to do it?"

"To be fair, Detective," came a familiar and irritatingly impassive voice of the medical examiner, "our victim was quite likely dead for some time. Based on our previous experiences with this particular killer, and the amount of work his scenes usually entail, my guess would be that he was likely killed some time last night."

Danny leveled him with a withering glare. "So it's you I have to thank for this rude awakening?"

"Actually, it was a couple of teenagers, who found the body, I was merely–," the medical examiner began, floundering, the man's eyebrows rising incredulously above his glasses.

"Pay him no heed, Max," Kono broke in, giving the round-faced scientist one of her warmest smiles. "He's always this grouchy before he gets at least 3 cups of coffee into him." Stepping closer to Danny, she poked him sharply into the side, eliciting a grunt of pain from the blond man, and whispered harshly, "Who went and peed in your Cheerios this morning, brah?"

Danny pulled away from her, cringing. "First of all, _**OW**_! Keep your hands to yourself, Ironwoman," he complained, rubbing the sore spot. "And secondly, the reason I am in such a _terrific_ mood on this bright Friday morning is because, on top of being pulled out of bed at an ungodly hour, my coffee machine, my _brand new_ coffee machine, mind you, that, judging by its price tag, should have come equipped with a small one-bedroom ocean view apartment, lit up like a flipping Christmas tree the moment I turned it on and nearly cost me my fingers and a kitchen counter. Oh, and to top it all off, my cell phone's dead, because I forgot to charge it last night thanks to McGarrett and his overachieving tendencies."

"That's rough, brah," Kono drawled out, her shoulders shaking, as she struggled to contain laughter that threatened to bubble to the surface.

"It's worse than I thought," Chin added, trying his best to sound grave. "We better wrap this up quickly and get some coffee into Jersey here, or I fear heads will roll."

"Of that you can be sure, my friend," the blond growled out with an angry eyeroll. "And the first one will be McGarrett's."

"You can work on decapitating McGarrett when he gets here," Chin assured him. "In the meantime, let's see what Max has for us. Shall we?" He nodded expectantly at the bespectacled doctor. "Max?"

The medical examiner pulled himself up to his full height, giving the Jersey native a look of deep resentment before walking over to the edge of the outcropping they were standing on and gesturing grandly for them to look down. There, some twenty feet below them on a large slab of bare unforgiving rock that was being splattered relentlessly by the rising surf, in an awkwardly twisted pose lay the broken and ruthlessly naked body of the hapless gallery curator, Mr. Calvin Merrick. Rigid outstretched arms were crisscrossed with what looked to be thin leather straps attached to a pair of enormous white-feather wings, the kind one would find at a costume shop. Blood that had pooled underneath the body was gradually being washed away by the rolling waves, but some of it remained, soaking into the nearby white plumes and turning them a gruesomely diluted pink. The victim's eyes have been forced open, their cold, unseeing gaze fixed blindly on some invisible point beyond.

"Ladies," Max paused, dipping his head at Kono in acknowledgement and apology, "_Lady _and gentlemen, you are looking at 'The Death of Icarus'. The inspiration for this piece is a very recent painting by a contemporary artist Howard David Johnson, quite a departure from our previous older, more classical works." He took a breath, taking a quick, satisfied survey of their curious expressions, and continued in an even more dogmatic, pompous manner, "The original painting depicted Icarus after his unfortunate fall, and it appears that our victim was killed by a fall as well."

"We kind of got that, Max, thank you," Chin murmured, frowning at the scene below them. "Our killer is venturing out," he concluded grimly, pursing his lips in undisguised concern. "He started out confined in enclosed spaces, away from prying eyes. And now..."

"And now he's getting bolder," Kono finished for him, nodding unhappily. "Four murders under his belt and we still don't even have a suspect."

"Possibly," Danny agreed, but Kono picked up on the hesitation in his voice.

"You think there's more to this?"

The blond shrugged. "I was just thinking 'why Merrick', you know. He's only a curator. He doesn't make those decisions, doesn't say who gets accepted and who doesn't. If we're going on the assumption that our killer is punishing those that rejected him, how does Merrick fit in?"

The cousins shared a sober look before turning back to him with an almost identical expression of patient curiosity. "You think the motive for Merrick's killing was different," Chin surmised. "What?"

"Steve called Merrick last night before leaving," Danny offered, looking pensively down at the curator's body. "Faxed him the 25 names we narrowed our list down to. What if Merrick recognized one of those names?"

"And the killer found out?" Kono ventured, her voice skeptical. "But how would he find out so quickly unless..," she trailed off, her eyes widening in realization.

"Unless he was there when Merrick got the list," Danny finished darkly then spun on his heels and began walking back to his car. "We need to get back to the office and look carefully at that list. I'll bet you one of the people on that list will have the Waimea Galleries listed as place of employment." Flinging the car door open, he turned back to the cousins and added, "And while my phone is out of commission, can one of you call our merman boss and remind him that, while swimming to China and back is part of his morning routine, it should not take precedence over active murder investigations?"

"Will do," Chin replied unflappably, even as his younger cousin ducked quickly into her own car to hide her crumbling, giggling composure from her fuming colleague.

H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~

"Guys, I think I got something!" Kono called out, her fingers flying over the keys, as she pulled up a brightly colored website with thumbnail images of various paintings. "This is Jacob Liang's website. He describes himself as, quote, an inspiring artist who feeds his body by working with other people's art and nourishes his soul by creating his own masterpieces." She scrunched up her face, making fake gagging noises. "Gah, can this guy be any more pretentious? Anyway, looks like he could be the link we are looking for. His resume lists him working as an assistant art preparator at the Waimea Galleries, and his portfolio was just recently rejected for the gallery's latest exhibition."

"And his link to the other gallery?" Chin asked, leaning forward to peer at the screen over Kono's shoulder.

"The Kailani Art Gallery has two rejection letters for him," she checked her notes. "One from last month and another one from two weeks ago."

"Definitely sounds like our guy," the older Hawaiian nodded satisfied, pulling back up to his full height. Turning to Danny, who was absently checking the voicemail on his charging phone, he announced, "Let's call HPD and have them meet us at his... " He trailed off, alarmed by the sudden pallor of the blond man's face. "Danny? What is it? What's wrong?"

The Jersey native blinked rapidly, letting his phone arm fall numbly to his side. "That was...," he began, swallowing dryly, as he fought to control the rising panic. "I got a message... from Steve. He was... he called about 5 this morning, said he was heading over to Calvin Merrick's place. That he got a call from a colleague of Merrick's telling him that Merrick needed to see him urgently regarding one of the names from our list." He swallowed dryly, letting the implication of what he just said sink in. "Merrick had already been dead by then, according to Max. It was that guy. Had to be..." He trailed off, meeting their anxious gazes with a desperate one of his own. "That was over 3 hours ago," came out in a broken, horrified whisper.

Kono pulled out her phone, dialing Steve's number, but Danny could already tell by her rapidly darkening face that this attempt to reach his partner was once again unsuccessful. "Keeps going straight to voicemail," she confirmed, biting her lip nervously as she turned back to the Smart Table. "I'm gonna run a trace." Moments later a ping announced a successful trace, and a red dot lit up on the screen, indicating the phone's location.

"We need to go," Danny mumbled, taking an unsteady step forward. "We need to... maybe he's still... maybe he's not..." _dead – _he couldn't quite make himself say the word.

A firm, comforting hand landed on his shoulder, and Danny pulled in a shuddering breath, grateful for the support. "Let's head out," Chin's voice sounded above his ear. "We'll have HPD meet us there."

H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~

He awoke gradually to a crescendoing, pounding headache and an extremely dry, cottony mouth. He knew that feeling. He'd been drugged. It had happened before – same unpleasant dryness, same skull-splitting headache. And fuzzy memory – another unpleasant side-effect. What the hell happened?

Diligently, fervently he forced his sluggish brain to work, pushing against the numbing effects of the still present drug.

He remembered getting a frantic call, urging him to get to Merrick's place as soon as possible. He remembered coming up to the doorstep, ringing the bell. Remembered seeing a shadow of something behind him and a sharp prick in his neck. Oh yeah... the drug...

He tried reaching for his neck to touch the injection site, but to his great dismay found himself unable to move his hands. A brief flare of panic was squashed just as quickly, military training taking over, and he forced himself to calmly take stock of his situation.

Slowly opening his eyes, he scanned the area around him, watching for any sign of his attacker. There was no one. He was outside, in the middle of someone's backyard, if a house in the distance was anything to go by. He was naked, safe for a loincloth-type rag that was wrapped around his waist. And he appeared to have been tied to a tree – a palm, judging by the abrasive coarseness of the trunk against his bare back.

He tensed, straining against his bonds to test them, but the ropes held, cutting into his skin, reminding him ruthlessly of the painfully twisted position of his arms.

"Oh, you're awake already?" came a cheerful voice from his side, and he turned his head in its direction, glaring at a tall lanky Asian, who came up beside him, carrying an easel with a painting attached to it and a large duffel bag. "You're a strong man, Commander. My previous clients were out for much longer after the dose I gave them."

He parted his parched lips, clumsily and futilely trying to moisture them with an uncooperative, leaden tongue. "Who are you?" he rasped, watching warily as the man set the easel down, angling it so the painting could be seen by both of them. "What do you want with me?"

His abductor smiled unkindly, giving him a mock salute. "Jacob Liang. I believe I introduced myself over the phone," he offered cheekily, moving to open the duffel bag that was still slung over his shoulder. "And this right here," he dipped his head in the direction of the easel, inviting Steve to follow his gaze to the painting, where he could now see a figure of a man, similarly naked and bound to a tree, his body pierced with numerous arrows, "is Saint Sebastian."

"As for what I want...," Liang's smile turned predatory, as he pulled out a slick metal crossbow, letting the bag drop to the ground, and aimed it squarely at Steve's defenseless body, "I want to make you into him."

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

Well, there you have it. Like I said, it was all Titian's fault - his "St Sebastian" was the painting that started this whole thing.

And here you go, the links to the two paintings: 1) www dot howarddavidjohnson dot com forward slash Z204 dot htm

2) www dot pbase dot com forward slash bmcmorrow forward slash image forward slash 148244641

Please review. Let me know your thoughts.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N I'm sorry if I missed any of you in responding to the reviews. I appreciated them all, every single one of them. Thank you! **

**Most of this chapter is written from Steve's POV except for the final section. I hope it makes sense the way it's written. No beta, so forgive me my mistakes if any.**

****Well, you wanted whump, my dear readers, here it comes. I hope it meets with your expectations (please let me know either way)****

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><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

A soft metallic click of the release mechanism, a quiet pop of the string, and the arrow shot forth, slick and deadly, slicing through the air with a barely perceptible hiss before plunging into its intended target with a sickening thump, cutting deep into the fragile tissue.

Biting down hard on his bottom lip to keep in a grunt of pain, Steve watched warily as the killer stepped closer, gleefully inspecting the long metal shaft sticking out of his left bicep.

"I always wanted to fire one of those," he commented with a hint of almost childlike awe in his voice, flicking the arrow carelessly with his fingers before shifting his gaze to his victim's face to gauge the latter's reaction.

Steve didn't give him the satisfaction, keeping his expression as impassive as possible. The SEALs were taught to ignore pain, to compartmentalize it, lest it should interfere with carrying out the mission. And he was a very good student. He couldn't tell how much time had passed since he left that message on Danny's answering machine, but it was already dawning, and he was pretty sure that his friend has gotten the message by now . Which meant cavalry was on its way, and he needed to try his best to stall for time. He could do that.

"Why did you kill all those people, Jacob? Huh?" he prodded, hoping to engage the man, to distract.

His attempt at diversion failed, however, as the other man stepped over to the painting, examining it briefly, before twisting back toward him with a newly reloaded weapon. The man's finger tightened on the trigger, and an instant later a second arrow popped free, hitting the same arm only inches away from the other wound, the razor-sharp tip ripping easily through to the other side.

A hiss of pain escaped his crushingly gritted teeth, eyes slamming shut for a moment. But he took control once more, gulping away the pain, forcing himself to focus and his mouth to work. "A..all because you got a couple of rejection letters?"

"A little further to the right than I had hoped," Liang tsked in mild displeasure, leaning in closer to inspect the newest wound, Steve's questions ignored, "but I think it'll do." Still refusing to answer his captive's query, he stepped back again, sliding another arrow into the channel. "I think it's time we move on to your torso."

And that was all the warning Steve had before blindingly sharp pain exploded below his navel, taking his breath away. He gasped, trying to suck in a shuddering, wheezing lungful of air that had suddenly become scorchingly dry and abrasively brittle like shards of sand-crusted glass.

"She lied to me!" the words were angry and loud above his ear, and Steve blinked in surprise, trying desperately to focus on the young stubbled face that hovered before him, vehemently, uncomfortably close. "She promised me she'd have my work displayed once she moved to a new, bigger gallery. So, like a fool, I forward her my portfolio once she settles over at the Kailani gallery, and you know what she tells me?" Liang scoffed angrily, his breath hot on Steve's cheek. "She says her partner finds my work overly simplistic, unoriginal and unexciting. A poor imitation of the classics, quote unquote. He doesn't believe it meets the gallery's standards. And _**she**_... she has the nerve to tell me she agrees."

"S-so Sylvia... Win...ters and her p-partner hurt your... ego," he huffed out in between weak, shaky inhales, fighting to steady his furiously beating heart, to quiet the loud thumping of blood in his ears. "A-and you had t-to... show them..."

"And I did show 'em," the younger man confirmed with an overly enthusiastic, smug nod. "Just like I showed that loser Sandhu, who told me I needed to do a better job studying classical works." He turned away, heading back toward the easel, but Steve could still hear the perversely gleeful laughter underscoring Liang's next words, "He wanted classical, I gave him classical. Or neoclassical, to be precise. David's Marat was a perfect choice, don't you think?"

Liang was looking toward him again, expecting an answer, his lips twisted in a sardonic, self-assured smile. "Well, Commander?"

Steve glared back, the brief moment of respite having given his battle-hardened body enough time to once again clamp down on the pain, shoving it deeper into the murky layers of his subconscious, cutting off its access to the front of his awareness. His hearing, once again sharp and alert, strained to pick up any hint of disturbance in the tranquil morning breeze that caressed his exposed skin. There was nothing. No distant wail of police sirens, no familiar roar of Camaro's loud powerful engine, speeding down the street toward them. Nothing but the soft shuffling of his tormentor's footsteps and his own strained breathing.

No rescue was coming. Not in any immediate future, at least. He didn't know why. Didn't want to think that his message didn't get through or was simply ignored, that his partner was too busy or too distracted to notice that Steve wasn't there. Whatever the case, whatever the reason, the end result was the same – he was on his own. And the realization burned like a bitter pill, stuck deep in his throat.

He swallowed convulsively, forcing away the dark, unpleasant thoughts. He had to trust in his team, his ohana. Trust that they will know that he's in trouble and come for him, sirens blazing and weapons at the ready. And he had to hope that when his rescue does come, it will not come too late. In the meantime, however, he was left to use the only weapon at his disposal and rattle the guy's cage as best he could.

"Three art experts s-so far ...told you that your work's not ...good enough. Don't you think ...there might be something t-to that?"

The smile on the other man's face faded, and Steve had a split second to brace himself as the fourth arrow ripped through his abdominal muscles, burying itself deep in his side.

"H-hit a n..n-nerve?" he gasped out, straining to keep closed the floodgates that threatened to crumble under the crushing onslaught of renewed brutal pain.

For a long time Liang didn't respond, his dark slanted eyes watching him with icy anger. Then after a brief nod of acquiescence to something in his own mind, he averted his gaze, reaching to load another arrow into the newly empty groove.

"Did you know that Saint Sebastian is a patron saint of soldiers, among other things?" he asked matter-of-factly, throwing a contemplative look at the painting. "Makes him quite a nice fit for you, doesn't it, Commander?" He chuckled darkly, a strange unsettling sound. "I mean, I must admit that some of my choices were a bit of a stretch, but this one ... with you... perfect. I think you're going to be my biggest masterpiece yet." The preparator rolled his eyes, savoring the thought with a smile that reminded Steve of a cat who had just swallowed a nice juicy canary.

The crossbow rose once more, Liang taking aim, and Steve bit down hard on his bottom lip to stop a scream that clawed to get out, when another razor-sharp blade cut into his ribcage, digging a brutal, breath-stealing path to his lung.

Air whooshed out of his lungs in a single unstoppable gust, leaving behind a stifling vacuum of blood vessel popping pressure. He could feel his own chest caving under the enormity of that pressure, blood flooding into spaces where air used to be, roaring like a freight train in his ears, as his heart fought frantically to compensate for the sudden lack of oxygen. An uncontrollable surge of panic momentarily overwhelmed all other senses, as he failed over and over to draw in a single decent breath.

Eyes blown wide in distress and alarm, veins in his neck bulging under the impossible strain, he dug the fingers of his bound hands deep into the fleshy part of his palms, keeping up the vicious pressure until the skin there gave way and a mild sensation of burning reached his overwhelmed consciousness, providing a much needed distraction. Relaxing the cramped hold of his now blood-slicked fingers, he latched on to that new source of pain, gradually pushing the panic away. Air was still mostly out of reach, and he was growing dangerously lightheaded, but he could now focus on sucking in short, jerky breaths that were still woefully insufficient but enough to keep him conscious.

He blinked, letting his blurry gaze settle once again on the crossbow-wielding killer. The man was watching him curiously, an oddly satisfied smile playing on his thin lips.

"How does being a martyr feel, eh, Commander?"

Ignoring the question for the moment, Steve pulled in another convulsive breath, throat swollen with warm coppery liquid that fought to spill forth. A forced shaky swallow did little to ease the building pressure, and he gasped in unprepared pain, as a sudden coughing fit racked his abused body, dislodging a thick sticky glob of bright crimson red.

A wave of agony ripped through his chest, and all colors fled momentarily, darkness advancing closer, pulling, enticing. Painfully, he sucked in a couple of desperate, greedy half-breaths, staving off the encroaching nothingness, and peeled his eyes open, blinking sluggishly until his swimming gaze locked on the slightly washed-out figure before him.

And almost laughed out loud at the disgust-twisted face of his tormentor, covered with hasty smudges of distastefully wiped off blood.

Baring his red-tinged teeth in a feeble grin of defiance, he wheezed out a barely audible retort: "Better... th'n... be...ing ... a f-fail'r..."

H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~ H50 ~

Jacob Liang reared back, his lips thinning further in mute, blinding anger. Anger at his victim's breathlessly gasped out insult, at his stubborn refusal to let fear take over. The others all felt it, he knew. He was sure of it. He had seen that fear reflected in their eyes in those last few seconds of awareness he had been gracious enough to accord them. He enjoyed that fear, thrived on it, let it convince him that what he was doing was right, that their fear was nothing short of an acknowledgment of their wrongdoing in the face of his rightful vengeance. So how dare this cop refuse him the same pleasure?

Grinding his teeth in frustration, Liang stepped closer, wanting nothing more than to wipe that bloody smirk off his captive's face.

"You're not very bright, are you, Commander?" he goaded, unnerved by the man's return gaze – defiant and furious, even if that fury was muted, dulled by pain. "A smarter man would have known not to piss off the man with a crossbow."

Pale and trembling, McGarrett drew in a tortured breath, nostrils flaring with the effort. "A s-smarter... m-man wou... wouldn't blame... oth... others f'r his... l-lack of t-tal'n't..."

The rasped out taunt was the equivalent of waving a red cape in front of an enraged bull. Abandoning for a moment his quest for faithful rendition of his chosen artwork, Liang pressed his palm against the butt of the arrow sticking out of McGarrett's chest and pushed with all his anger-powered might, driving the slick deadly bolt deeper until he felt its barbed broadhead punch through to the other side.

A gurgled, breathless moan trailed the ruthless move, the gravity of the newest damage punctuated further by a fresh film of frothy red that bubbled past the bound man's cracked blood-stained lips.

Liang smirked in grim satisfaction, watching his prisoner's gaze dim with gradual, deathly inevitability, his head falling limply onto the bare, blood-streaked chest.

Taking a step back, the preparator inhaled deeply, calming his rattled nerves, as he observed the scene before him. The "painting" wasn't a total loss, but it was far from the masterpiece he had hoped for. All because he had lost his cool at the last moment.

He shook his head regretfully, lamenting the loss of such a perfect canvas. No matter. He would find another, a better one. Perhaps the owner of that small dockside gallery who sent him a rejection letter two days ago...

Filled now with a renewed sense of purpose, he calmly put away the weapon, slung the once again hefty duffel bag over his shoulder, gingerly picked up the easel with the painting and walked unhurriedly out of Calvin Merrick's backyard without so much as a backward glance at his disappointing latest victim.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

So, I know you were probably expecting a rescue at some point at the end of this chapter. But you need to keep in mind the time that it took for Danny to get Steve's message and... uh... well, yeah... so... I'm gonna go hide now.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N **So it's been ages since I updated, and I know I have a backlog of reviews I never responded to. (shakes head) I'm sorry for leaving you hanging. It's been a long month with too much RL interference, and it had gotten to the point where I completely lost the thread of the story along with any confidence that I'll be able to finish it.

But then I got some awesome ass-kicking advice and assistance from the amazing TheDoGo (Thank you, my dear! I never would have been able to do this without you.). So here I am with another chapter and a hopefully overcome writer's block :)

Thank you all for your great support of this story! And please be assured (to those still worried) that this is not a deathfic. In the event I ever decide to go that route, I will be sure to warn everyone in advance.

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><p><strong>Chapter 7<strong>

Calvin Merrick's house stood huddled miserably in the deep shadows of powerful koa trees that towered over its rickety one-story form. It looked empty, abandoned. Not a soul in sight as the team moved with desperate urgency through the vacant rooms - still and silent._ Like death. _

He bit the inside of his cheek. Hard. Because that was not the image he needed. Not now. _Especially_, not now.

Fingers twitching nervously within the crushing two-handed grip around the handle of the gun, he cleared room after room at a barely controlled half-run, his heart sinking as each subsequent room came up forebodingly empty.

"Over here!" a shout came from the outside, where several HPD officers were combing through the unkempt tree-sheltered backyard, securing the perimeter.

Danny twisted in place, his loafers slipping on the polished wood in a tumbled hurry to chase after that disembodied call of hope. He sailed through the glassed-in lanai and flung open the back door, ignoring the telltale tinkle of breaking glass. His focus, his _only_ focus right now was on following the sound of that slightly panicked voice that offered the promise of finding his friend.

He stumbled, tripping over a gnarled tree root that stuck out treacherously into the middle of an overgrown path. His arms flailed instinctively, as he sought purchase against a sudden, unexpected loss of balance, grabbing on to the first branch within his reach.

Maybe that's why he didn't see him. Not right away. Not until he had both feet planted firmly on the ground and he risked looking up, letting go of the anchoring branch. And instantly wished he hadn't done so.

"Steve..." The whimpered plea tumbled past fear-numbed lips and froze miserably over the small clearing, as he lurched across it toward the ruthlessly naked, mutilated body of his friend, his brother. _"Please... God, please!" _The ragged prayer swirled in his mind, hitching and stuttering like a turntable needle on an old scratched up vinyl record.

"I... I can't tell if he's...," a young HPD officer stuttered shakily, cautiously pulling his blood-stained fingertips away from Steve's neck and swallowing convulsively when his hand inadvertently brushed the metal shaft sticking out of McGarrett's chest, eliciting a quiet, pitiful moan from the bound man. "Ay ...uhm... I'm so s-"

Danny shoved him aside. Uncaring, unceremonious. Because there wasn't time for that. Later, he'd apologize later. But now... placing himself as close as he could without touching the arrows – and, God help him, he was going to find the son of a bitch who did this to his partner and make the fucker wish he had never been born – he laid his trembling hands on either side of Steve's face, gently lifting the matted dark head up off the man's bloodied chest. "Steve? Steven? You hear me?" he half-asked, half-pleaded, his breath hitching as he fought to ignore the feel of the cold, clammy skin underneath his fingertips and the bloody froth at the corners of his friend's mouth. Voice choking with relief and anguish, he let out a shaky breath, watching as his friend's eyelids fluttered weakly in response to his words, never quite managing to flicker open. "I got you, babe. You hear me? I got you. You just hold on. We'll get you out of here. Just hold on. Hold on."

"Help me get him down!" he roared over his shoulder, breaking his breathless mantra.

His call was answered instantly, and the small space around them was suddenly flooded with people. He kept his gaze locked on his friend's pallid face, moving only to shift his left hand down to Steve's shoulder to brace his body once they began cutting the ropes that were keeping him in place.

A sudden explosion of fury-laced Hawaiian obscenities from Chin, who was positioned behind Steve's back, made him look up in alarm, frowning at his colleague's uncharacteristic loss of composure. "What is it? Chin, what's wrong?" he demanded, his insides clenching at the anguished look on the older man's face.

"He's got..." His teammate swallowed thickly before continuing, looking for all the world as if he were about to puke, and Danny felt his own stomach roil at his next words. "There's an arrowhead sticking out of his back. We gotta... we'll need to cut if off before we can lay him down. But the goddamn thing is metal, I don't-"

"I got bolt cutters in the trunk," Kono's voice, strangled and unnaturally faint, sounded beside him. He saw Chin nod encouragingly toward her. "Go."

And Danny felt rather than saw her take off, his worried gaze once again focused solely on Steve who began sagging further and further against him, as the ropes were slowly being cut away.

"I'm cutting him loose now, Danny." Chin's voice held a tense note of warning that had Danny step in closer still. With careful urgency, he slid his right arm under Steve's armpit, trying desperately not to jostle the man's pierced-through arm in the process. "You ready?"

"I got him," he assured as the last of the rope snapped, releasing its prisoner who fell forward, limp and heavy against Danny's straining arms.

The catch was solid but far from graceful, and Steve moaned softly in his grip, as the arrows lodged in his torso were further jolted by the abrupt movement. Sucking in a sharp breath of self-loathing, Danny tightened his hold on the man, trying awkwardly to twist his own body out of the way of the arrow shafts to avoid hurting him further. Words poured out of his mouth: stumbled apologies, senseless reassurances, desperate pleas to hang on... He whispered them non-stop, his breath brushing the clammy cheek that rested against his own.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Kono rush in, and he winced in anticipation, wanting nothing more than to spare his brother the pain he knew was coming and knowing with grim certainty that he was powerless to do anything about it. He watched her position herself behind Steve, heard the sickening scrape of metal against metal, followed by a harsh metallic crunch that sent a shudder of agony through his friend's exposed frame.

"It's done, Danny," came Chin's relieved exhale. The Hawaiian straightened out from his half-crouch, placing both hands on the back of Steve's shoulder. "Let's lay him down."

Slowly and carefully, as if handling a delicate flower, the three teammates began to lower Steve's body onto someone's thoughtfully laid out HPD jacket. A pained whimper escaped the wounded man, aborting their progress midway, as they froze in dismay at his obvious distress. A moment's hesitation gone, Danny nodded to Chin and Kono to take over for him, while he briefly relinquished his hold on Steve to quickly drop down into a sitting position beside him and gave the cousins the go-ahead to help settle their boss propped up securely against him.

"Ambulance?" he queried tensely over Steve's head, cradling his injured friend as gently as he could, watching as Kono reached for the discarded jacket to drape it protectively over McGarrett's lower body.

"Two minutes out," came the equally tense response, and Danny bit his lip with nervous impatience, glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the house, as he strained his ears in the hopes of hearing the desperately anticipated sirens.

A light movement against his chest had him looking down instantly, and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of two hooded eyes blinking sluggishly and blearily up at him.

"Hey, babe," he choked out, moving one hand to once again rest against Steve's cheek. "You back with us?"

The blood-tinged lips twisted silently, as words fought to get out, finding their way frustratingly blocked by a thick viscous glob that appeared to have been stuck deep in his throat. He coughed weakly in a feeble attempt to dislodge the obstruction, and instantly regretted the action, as even that minor jolt reawakened a fury of all-consuming fire deep in his chest. Whatever words there were became lost in a hoarse, wretched moan that broke free to communicate his agony.

"Shhh, shhh, easy, babe, easy." The familiar voice cut through the roar of flames that threatened to consume the fragile fabric of his consciousness, and he latched on to that familiarness, letting his blurry gaze land sloppily on the washed out face above him.

"Dan...?"

The face above him leaned closer, and he could just make out a small smile that pulled at his friend's lips. "Yeah, you goof. We're all here. Who else would you have rescuing your sorry, pin-cushioned ass?"

He managed a grimace of a smile in return, struggling to keep in another ragged cough, knowing with grim certainty that he won't be able to stay conscious past it. A faintly gasped out, garbled "n-no 'ne ... bet...t'r" snuck past his lips, and then his strangled breath gave way to a crushing upsurge of pressure, no longer containable by his meager efforts.

His body seized and shuddered under the unforgiving onslaught, his mouth opening in a silent scream, as the thick gooey substance ran in a warm, gruesome trickle down his chin. Light fractured all around him like savagely shattered glass, and he slumped senseless against his partner, oblivious to the anguished, frantic calls of his name.

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><p>TBC<p>

_Uhm, well, the team finally found him. So... yeah... Thoughts? _


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N ** I am so, SO grateful to all of you for such amazing response to the last chapter! You, guys, totally made my day (several days, in fact :)) Thank you!

I would have posted sooner, but I am only now finally starting to get over whatever nasty bug my children managed to pick up and share throughout the family. And until now writing has been kind of impossible, since I couldn't focus long enough to come up with more than one coherent sentence at a time. It's been a fun couple of weeks, to say the least :) Thank you, TheDogo for your invaluable input on this chapter! You, my friend, are a godsend!

I hope the chapter was worth the wait. Please, let me know your thoughts.

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><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

Hours trickled by. The vibrant colors of a bright Hawaiian day outside the exaggeratedly large hospital windows were slowly becoming washed out by the bland grayness of twilight, but there was still no news from behind the firmly closed double doors of the OR. No one had come out. No one had approached them. No one had even looked their way.

And, except for the occasional frustrated sigh or nervous pacing from one of the three remaining teammates, nothing at all deigned to interrupt the strained, oppressive quiet that was punctuated by gruesome images of their friend's tortured, pain-racked body on blood-soaked grass. Images that assaulted them every time they dared to close their eyes.

Taut like an overtightened guitar string, Kono shot up from her seat, no longer able to bare the seemingly interminable, white-knuckled wait. "I'm going to get some coffee," she announced tersely, glancing down at them with impatient expectation. "You, guys, want any?"

Chin raised his head, giving her a wordless nod of appreciation. She returned it curtly and switched her attention to the third member of their small waiting party who had yet to respond to her question.

"Danny?" She hesitated next to the blond's hunched-over form, a small crease cutting a worried path through the smooth tanned skin between her eyebrows.

The Jerseyan remained as he was, however, showing no outward sign that he had heard her, so she opened her mouth to call out to him again.

"It's alright, Kono. I got this." Chin shook his head at her, forestalling her words. "Just bring some back for all of us."

Stunned into silence, all she could do was nod unhappily before walking off in the direction of the vending machines.

The older Hawaiian watched her disappear around the corner, the forced expression of composure that he had donned for his cousin's sake slipping from his face to be replaced by one of bone-deep weariness and concern. Turning slightly in his chair, he let his gaze roam worriedly over the huddled form of his friend. The dark eyes narrowed in distressed disapproval at the uncomfortably rigid muscles of Danny's back, the tightly clasped hands laying in a white-knuckled knot on his lap, the mop of hopelessly mussed blond hair with a few clumped strands falling limply to frame the pale downturned face. The Jersey native hadn't moved from that position since the doors to the OR slammed shut behind Steve's hurriedly rolled stretcher and Chin had all but forced the trembling, shocky-looking smaller man into the plastic chair.

"Danny?" he called out softly, placing a hesitant hand on the blond's shoulder.

Danny jerked at the touch, coming out of his stupor with a sharp arm-flailing lurch.

"Easy, brother." Having instinctively pulled back from his startled teammate, Chin was now forced to hastily reestablish his physical connection with Danny, as the latter's rather violent return to active awareness caused him to teeter perilously on the edge of the rickety chair. "Easy..."

"Chin?" Pale blue eyes blinked owlishly at him from a haggard, ashen face. "What's... what is it?" He glanced worriedly back at the operating room doors, as if suddenly afraid that he had missed something.

"It's fine," Chin hurried to reassure him, instantly stumbling over the absurdity of the statement. "I mean... no one's come out yet. No news."

Danny nodded slowly, frowning at the empty space beside his teammate, finally becoming aware of another's absence. "Where's Kono?"

"Getting coffee."

"I see." Danny nodded again, seemingly satisfied with the answer, and returned to somber contemplation of his once more tightly clenched hands.

Chin's gaze followed his, and he winced inwardly as it lingered on the patches of dried blood that stood out morbidly against the pale skin; flashed back to those last few horrifying minutes in the backyard of Calvin Merrick's house. The awful gurgling sound of a blood-filled cough ripping out of Steve's throat as the younger man convulsed violently in Danny's arms before growing alarmingly still. Danny's fingers digging desperately into the bare blood-stained flesh and his gut-wrenching scream of denial that shattered the stunned oppressive stillness of the moment, jarring them all back into action.

"I don't even have to close my eyes..."

Danny's sudden murmured words took him by surprise. Chin blinked in confusion, coming out of his unpleasant reveries. "What?"

"You know what they say about reliving the worst moment of your life every time you close your eyes," the blond clarified in the same quiet, subdued voice. "I didn't ... didn't wanna see it... anymore. So I've been trying to keep my eyes open..." The younger man shook his head, letting out a bitter chuff. "Didn't do shit for me, though. I keep seeing ... keep seeing him ... there... with those goddamn arrows and all that blood... And I want it to stop, but every time I so much as blink it's even worse... " He broke off, swallowing convulsively, before finishing in a strangled, nauseated tone. "I really need it to stop."

_The arrows. _Chin sucked in a sharp breath at the reminder. He had been the one to insist they leave those alone until the EMTs got there, even though his gut reaction was like that of his teammates: to take the cursed things out to relieve his friend's obvious suffering. He had been right, it turned out, and both medics were quick to point that out, as they worked on stabilizing the gruesome weapons to get Steve ready for transport.

"I did this..."

Danny's words once again took him by surprise, and all Chin could do was stare at his younger colleague, appalled. "What do you mean, you did this? Danny, this is in NO WAY your doing."

"It might as well be," the blond insisted, ignoring his friend's words. "All the time I spent busting his chops about his annoying tendency to rush into a situation without calling for backup. And what do I do when he does call? Huh?" Danny's shock-borne numbness slowly but surely gave way to agitation and his voice rose in concert with it, until the man physically lurched out of the chair and began pacing nervously in front of it.

"You can't seriously believe..." Chin faltered under Danny's wild, furious stare.

"Can't I?"

"Danny, your phone battery died," Chin tried again, rising cautiously out of his chair to once again attempt to calm the distraught man. "There's no way you could have known..."

"Oh, but I did know."

An unkind sneer twisted the shorter man's lips, his expression pulling into one of disgust – _with himself, _Chin realized with a start.

"That's the devil of it, you see. I _knew _that something was wrong. I could _feel _it. That little annoying McGarrett-related-heart-attack-about-to-happen sensor I apparently was implanted with the moment that lunatic burst into my hitherto fairly calm and stable life had been going bleep-bleep-bleep all morning. I _chose_ to ignore it. _Chose to_! You understand?"

Running a shaky hand through the ruthlessly tousled hair, Danny blew out an unsteady breath, deflating almost instantly before Chin's eyes.

"I was cranky and pissed over all the little things that went wrong for me this morning – my phone, the coffee maker... I wanted to blame somebody, so I blamed Steve. A part of me was happy that he was late because that would give me one more thing to ream into him about. You get it, Chin?" The anguished blue eyes rose to meet Chin's, Danny's voice cracking with guilt-ridden despair. "I allowed my partner, my best friend to be tortured for hours because I got my panties in a twist over a broken coffee maker. A goddamn_ coffee maker_, Chin!"

Chest heaving, Danny sucked in a sharp, convulsive breath, blinking furiously against a welling of troubled tears, and Chin had to strain to hear the next all but whispered, tortured words.

"What kind of a friend does that make me..."

For a long moment Chin stood silent in the face of his friend's agonizing self-condemnation, unsure of how to proceed. He knew that any further protestations on his part would simply be rejected by Danny outright. The man before him needed to spill, to give voice to the guilt he had been carrying inside him for all that time, and, though quite aware of the irrationality of such self-blame, Chin was inclined to allow him that release. But with the admission of guilt, came the question of absolution, and the Hawaiian wasn't sure his mainlander colleague was quite ready for that step yet. He was certain, in fact, that no amount of convincing on his part would persuade Danny at this moment that, as much as the Jersey native would like to believe otherwise, he was no more to blame for what happened to Steve than Kono or himself, for that matter. Any one of them could have offered to go check on their boss earlier. Neither one of them, in the heat of their investigation, did.

But that was not how Danny saw it, and Chin was willing to bet that whatever argument he made right now would be nothing more than a waste of breath. Yet leaving him to wallow in such guilt, knowing the Jerseyan's propensity to feel everything deeply, too deeply sometimes, was cruel at best. He needed to find a way to snap him out of it.

The opportunity came only moments later when he saw the operating room doors open slightly to let out a haggard-looking, weary physician. Swallowing tightly in anticipation, he forced down his own anxiously fluttering emotions, placed a firm, steadying hand on the blond's shoulder, and said as calmly and forcefully as he could, "The doctor's here, Danny. We should... we'll talk about this later, okay?"

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><p>TBC<p> 


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